"He died a few minutes ago," returned the other. "Come."
Varden turned and led the way down the corridor through knots of officials, and through the antechamber where stood a few chosen friends and councillors, conversing in low tones, to a small detached office.
They sat down.
"Don," said Varden, "you've done wonderful work. I've heard all about it. The princess arrived this morning with Mademoiselle Petrowa and that strange fellow Crane you picked up en route. He's a queer fish, but I like him. I haven't had a chance to see the princess, but the others are full of your exploits."
"The princess will be Queen now?" Fenton tried to keep his voice calm, but his mind was in a turmoil.
"Yes. I'm afraid this cooks your goose, old chap," said Varden easily. "She's bound to have some princeling or other for a husband now. In fact, a match is already spoken of."
Fenton nodded. Varden's remarks had convinced him on one score. Anna and Crane had said nothing about the ceremony over the tongs. Fenton stood up, restraint and determination mingling in his bearing. "It's quite impossible, I suppose, for me to see—Her Majesty"—his voice trembled slightly, then grew quite firm again. "Percy," he said, "you can fix me up with a post in the army? I want to be right up at the front."
Varden nodded without any particular enthusiasm.
"Wish I could go too," he said. "I'll get there, of course, as soon as the matter of the Queen's accession is settled. Until then I feel it my duty to stay here and watch things. And that means I'll miss the opening of the campaign."
"Is there any doubt," asked Fenton slowly, "as to the accession of Olga to the throne?"